


this side of mortality

by siehn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:43:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22553518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siehn/pseuds/siehn
Summary: “It’s just hair,” he informs his reflection, who continues to stare back unimpressed.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	this side of mortality

**Author's Note:**

> So, we've been talking about how we want to see Bucky cut his hair in the series soooo I wrote a thing. I will...maybe write more things. 
> 
> As ever, this is Victoria's fault.

The bathroom is quiet.

It’s also clean, a distinct bleach smell that reminds him of –

It’s clean, is the thing. Clean, and small; he can easily see his phone light up where it sits on the edge of the white sink beside the plastic black comb he bought for $3.49 at the Walgreens on the corner after staring at it for longer than anyone should.

“C’mon, Barnes,” he huffs at himself, making a face that he catches a glimpse of in the mirror as he raises his eyes. He hates what he sees – the long, wild hair pulled back into a pony tail and the five o’clock shadow and the _history_. His left side is unaccountably heavy, and his arm _aches_, fingers twitching almost subconsciously.

“It’s just hair,” he informs his reflection, who continues to stare back unimpressed.

He holds the scissors between the fingers of his rea—_flesh_ hand, twirling them absently with the same casual grace he twirls a knife. His right hand was never his dominant hand before – he used his left for everything from checking Steve’s forehead for the temperature apparent in his red cheeks and glassy eyes to signing his name on the enlistment form that would burn away everything he used to be. And then it was ripped off and replaced by metal plates and wire nerves, guns and knives and violence.

Bucky closes his eyes against the thoughts, the taste of bile in the back of his throat – his hand is shaking around the scissors.

The phone buzzes against the sink, the flashing image of perturbed-looking falcon letting him know that Wilson is calling him, again.

He ignores it, and the voicemail, and the text message that follows because it isn’t some dire emergency that he needs to deal with right now.

He has…time.

He steadies his hand around the scissors and raises them, meeting his own eyes in the mirror once again. It takes a moment for him gather the wherewithal to raise the other hand and grasp the loose tail of hair. He sucks in a sharp breath and reaches with the scissors, closing them with a _snip_ –

The hair falls to the clean floor; a shock of brown against the sterile white. Bucky twists around to stare at it for a moment, tilting his head; the static in his mind fades, just a little. He breathes out hard through his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to remember his mother’s hands, callused from work but gentle when she touched his head, tilting it this way and that to get an even cut.

His vision blurs, a sharp heat behind his eyes that he does his best to ignore even as he sniffs a little harder than normal, setting his jaw.

“No,” he informs his red-eyed reflection with a gesture of the scissors. He’s still trembling around the metal, flesh not affording him the same level of control as the burnished gold-lined vibranium.

He studies himself in the mirror – without the pony tail, his shorter hair curls around his ears unevenly; its different enough that some sort of weight slips from his shoulders, freeing up room in his lungs for more air even though he feels like he’s choking. Rather than give in to the feelings, he simply takes another breath and takes up the comb in metal fingers.

“Okay,” he manages, nodding. “Okay.”

He keeps cutting, brown strands drifting, falling, settling weightless on the floor.


End file.
